The Healing Party Read Free Page B

Avoid wheat, oil, butter and sugar. As she reeled off the foods that Mum could not eat, it sounded like a more extreme form of the diet Patsy had been following for the past year.
    The bag of chicken livers was sitting in the fridge, as Patsy had said. Liver, rich in iron, was supposed to be good for Mum. She had cooked it for us when we were children. I had seen her pick the livers up with both hands, squish the extra fluid out, massage them with five spice and soya sauce and throw them in a wok of sizzling oil. I couldn’t bear to touch the things. I tipped the bag into a mixing bowl and the livers slithered out like large blood clots.
    Dad arrived home with a shining face. He went straight to Mum in the family room to talk more about the miracle. Although I could see them from the kitchen, I could not hear what they were saying over the racket I was making. Mum and Dad looked hopeful and happy as they talked. I lit the stove and banged down the pressure cooker.
    Dad went up to his studio. I helped Mum lie down and hurried back to the kitchen. I opened and shut cupboard doors searching for implements and ingredients, rinsed, chopped vegetables, scraped out jars, and filled and stirred the pots. At the same time, I ran back and forth to the family room when Mum called for water, or to move her pillows or take her to the toilet. Every few minutes I turned my head to look at the clock.
    Five minutes before the family was due to arrive, I had cooked two dishes: a colourless chicken and lentil soup, and steamed liver with vegetables. The liver had lost its plumpness and rich brown sheen, and sat in shrivelled, grey lumps in the steamer.
    At least I could make the table look good. My parents still dined as though they were in a cheap Hong Kong eatery. I pulled away the plastic sheet covering the table and replaced it with a pale yellow bedsheet I found in the linen cupboard.
    With a clattering of high heels Anita strode in, well groomed, suited and swinging a glossy briefcase. She had recently been promoted to marketing manager of the property development firm she worked for. Her perfume and the corporate air she wore momentarily overpowered the smell of cooked liver. Everything seemed to lift a notch in pace.
    â€˜You’re looking well,’ she said and lifted her eyebrows, code for You’ve put on weight .
    â€˜And you are looking exceedingly well,’ I responded, puffing out my cheeks and crossing my eyes. We both laughed.
    â€˜How was the trip?’ she asked. Before I could answer, she walked into the family room to greet Mum and started organising her pillows. When she returned to the kitchen, she lifted the lid of the steamer. ‘These are overcooked. Do you know how much organic liver and vegetables cost?’ She tasted the soup. Without asking me, she took out a jar of tomato paste from the fridge and scraped half of it into the pot.
    She started to make a shopping list. Pushing me aside, she fossicked through the fridge and cupboards, calling out what we had and what we needed to get. She then opened a drawer full of bottles of pills. Pulling out one bottle after another, she said, ‘You give two of these blue pills at dinner time, one pink pill, two capsules and a tablespoon of this tonic. Same at breakfast time, except you also give two capsules from this blue bottle and one tablet from this foil pack. Got that, or do I need to repeat?’
    Irritation rose in me. ‘Do you mind writing that down?’
    She raised her voice. ‘Look! There are a million and one things to do. Read the labels and ring me tomorrow if you are not clear.’
    I was about to say, What’s the matter with you? but stopped short when I saw the resentment on her face.
    Before we could argue, Anita’s husband, Charles, came through the door with William on his hip. Anita rushed to them, gushing, ‘How’s my little boy!’ Charles, warm face smiling, put his arm around my shoulder and